How Long It Seems I've Waited
by potatopeeler
Summary: Just a few more years, he would tell himself. And then he would kiss him. Bart/Ptolemy


**Note:** This is based on the idea from the bartimaeusheadcanons tumblr that "Bartimaeus never even kissed Ptolemy. He was waiting until Ptolemy got a little older." Title taken from the song Sahara Mahala by the Jezabels.

* * *

Just a few more years, he would tell himself. It was something he had made himself swear to about a year after Ptolemy first summoned him, and though he was a great fan of improvisation (it was the only reason he was still alive, after all), it was a promise he was determined to keep.

Ptolemy deserved as much.

The boy was only fourteen and while that wasn't terribly young in terms of Alexandrian romance, it was a little young for Bartimaeus' tastes. He was no pedophile. He just happened to be fond of someone a little younger than himself, that was all. Unfortunately, "a little younger" meant a few thousand years. So he would wait, until Ptolemy was a bit older, maybe around sixteen; seventeen if he was feeling particularly honorable. (He doubted it.)

As usual, he was finding it hard to follow orders, even if they were self-imposed, but that didn't mean he wasn't trying. He was merely taking some liberties that were completely within the boundaries of his personal contract.

"Rekhyt, how would you like to go see the animals after lunch?" Ptolemy asked from his seat near the wall of scrolls. One was open across his thin lap, the limp papyrus cascading over his thighs and down to the floor, forming a trail that led all the way over to Bartimaeus. It would be much more practical for the boy to use the small table in the chamber of the Library, but that was what Bartimaeus was sitting on, his legs crossed without regard for how it stretched his loincloth. Thankfully for any wandering eyes, he had taken the appearance of a young scribe with particularly well-defined and smooth legs that day. It kept Ptolemy from giving him that mildly disapproving look for "misbehaving where dignified people can see" at least.

Though that might have been due to the draw of the scroll he was reading. The account on various types of spirits was over a dozen feet long and Ptolemy was nearly to the end, the beginning held in Bartimaeus' hand in a half-hearted attempt to make himself useful.

"Why would I want to go gawk at a bunch of animals dragged in from other countries to impress scholars when they get tired of reading? I've been in that position. Trust me, the gawking gets old pretty quick," Bartimaeus said with a yawn, tossing his head back slightly for effect. The dark curls of his hair shifted with the movement, brushing against the skin at the nape of his neck. Ptolemy didn't look up from the scroll.

"I'm sorry if I offended you, Rekhyt. I didn't think it through," Ptolemy said and though his eyes were still tracking back and forth over the scroll, it sounded sincere. Bartimaeus was just about to huff in indignation when Ptolemy finally looked up, dark eyes wide with his respect, and Bartimaeus choked on his inhale of air.

"Yeah, well...don't let it happen again," he said haughtily in his best impression of some royal fool, caught off guard. The scribe's eyes looked down at the papyrus in his hand and traced it back to the source, coming to rest on the boy again. "The market is going to be out of the anchovy bread you like so much if you take any longer to read this scroll," he teased, uncrossing and recrossing his legs. Ptolemy's gaze barely faltered. The flicker of his eyes might have been a blink for all he knew.

"You're right," he said. "I need to copy a few things and then we'll be finished with this one." The scribe rolled his eyes. It wasn't like he had helped. He had skimmed the text scratched onto the scroll, yes, but only because Ptolemy took so long to read the damn thing. He could only pick his teeth and fingernails clean for so long.

"Try not to take until dinnertime," he drawled, leaning back on his hands on the wooden table, the end of the scroll fluttering to the floor with a light rustle. Ptolemy only noticed several minutes later when he finally set down his quill and looked up from his notes. It looked like he wanted to sigh but was holding it back, polite as ever.

"My friend, would you mind holding that up?" the boy asked. There was an innocent lilt to his voice that made the request sound like genuine hope for a favor and Bartimaeus found himself hopping off the table and bending down to retrieve the end of the scroll before he could think. With a sharp pang in his essence, he suddenly realized how thoughtlessly he was obeying a magician's orders. He was tempted to tell the boy to just pick it up himself.

But Ptolemy hated the way the papyrus would drag across the dusty floor of the Library when he rolled up one this long. And when he looked up, Ptolemy was smiling at him, soft and grateful, like he really thought they were friends and Bartimaeus wouldn't devour each and every person in this Library if he had the chance.

And he found himself wanting so badly for Ptolemy's beliefs to be true. Just like every other time.

So he snatched the scroll up off the floor, letting the delicate edge crumple in his fist, and he stood there watching his master carefully roll the scroll and feeling the soft scratching over his fingers as it slipped through his hands, knowing that if he let his mind go in the direction it wanted he would snap. Instead, he focused his attention on the soft waves of Ptolemy's hair, how it curled around his ears when he pushed it back while bent over reading. He stared at the two little moles on his neck, trying to memorize their exact location between the faint white scar on his chin and the jut of his collarbone above his tunic. He tracked the small movements of the boy's fingers, small and dark against the pale yellow of the scroll, and Bartimaeus edged closer, the feet of papyrus between them disappearing with quick twists of those fingers.

When Ptolemy stood to replace the scroll (he wouldn't ask Bartimaeus to do that for him, not with the shelf so close) they ended up eye to chin, the boy's head colliding sharply with the scribe's face in the sudden movement. Ptolemy's head tilted back, likely to check if harm was done, and Bartimaeus' tilted forward in return.

Ptolemy's thumb pressed against his chin, his fingers curled around the scribe's strong jaw, and Bartimaeus dropped his head until the boy's eyes were too close. Close enough to see how much the boy trusted him, cared enough about bumping into a djinni that he would touch him to make sure he wasn't hurt. He still hadn't pulled his hand away.

With his dark eyes so close, he could tell that Ptolemy couldn't tell what would happen if Bartimaeus let his head fall another inch. The boy didn't have much experience with women (or men) at this point in his life.

Bartimaeus took the boy's hand, lifted it from his face and held it before guiding it to drop to his side. He didn't say anything because he knew what Ptolemy wanted to ask him.

Was he hurt?

Yes. He was.

He let his gaze shift to the scroll still grasped in the boy's other hand and stepped back, making room for him to reach the shelf behind him. "You'll be unhappy with your lunch if we don't hurry," he said, gesturing tiredly to the wall of scrolls. Ptolemy's eyes stayed on him for a moment longer, then he was ducking past him to reach the wall.

Maybe in a few years, the boy would have found a nice girl to look at like that. Maybe one of the servant girls or royal cousins would catch his eye and make him laugh. Maybe he would learn how to kiss. Or maybe Bartimaeus would be his first.

Just a few more years, he told himself. And then he would know.


End file.
